Matt de la Peña - The Living

He had an hour and a half before he was supposed to meet Carmen at the Destiny Dining Room. He could keep searching for Paolo, or he could try and get some sleep. He wished he could go talk to Carmen now, explain the news about his nephew, but she’d want no part of him rolling up on her cabin after what happened.

He decided to go talk to his boss, Supervisor Franco. Technically he was supposed to run all concerns by him first anyway.

Romero Disease

On the long walk to the other side of the ship, Shy thought about when his grandma started getting sick.

Her first symptoms had matched exactly with some new illness people were talking about on the news. The whites of her eyes were turning red. Her vision was blurring. She was so dehydrated her skin had become extremely dry and itchy and she was having trouble using the bathroom. Still, she refused to see a doctor.

“I’ve lived through sixty-seven years’ worth of flus,” she told Shy’s mom. “I don’t see what’s so special about this one.”

“That’s the point,” his mom pleaded. “I’m worried it’s more than just the flu.”

His grandma shook her head and went to lie down in her room.

Back then most people didn’t know about Romero Disease. Shy only knew what his mom had mentioned after reading an article in the paper. A few dozen people had died in America, all of them from border towns in California like Tecate, San Ysidro, Otay Mesa and National City. What he didn’t know yet was that thousands had already died on the other side of the border, in Tijuana, including a popular young governor named Victor Romero—which was how the disease got its name in the media.

The next morning, Shy’s grandma collapsed in the kitchen while kneading dough for her sweet bread.

She didn’t wake up until she’d been checked into the hospital for several hours, and she didn’t recognize Shy or his mom or sister. She asked if they knew where she could find Jesus. She asked if the world had ended and they’d forgotten to take her on their spaceship. The whites of her eyes were now blood-red and her tan skin had turned yellow and papery and she couldn’t stop scratching at her arms and legs.

They diagnosed her with Romero Disease and placed her in the special quarantine unit. After Shy, his mom and his sister tested negative for the disease, they were allowed to sit outside her room and watch over her through a thick wall of glass.

In the middle of that night, Shy heard an alarm go off and he lifted his head, saw his grandma scratching off chunks of her own skin. Blood all over the white sheets. His mom raced down the hall shouting for help. A group of nurses in full hazmat suits came and held down his grandma’s flailing limbs. A doctor rushed in, stuck a long needle into her thigh.

Shy’s mom and sister were crying hysterically as the three of them were pushed out into the general waiting area. Shy paced the room, unable to comprehend what was happening. Just a couple days ago, his grandma was fine. She was working on a scrapbook and watching Telemundo. Now she looked like something out of a horror film.

Thirty minutes later the doctor emerged shaking his head and looking at the ground.

He said he was sorry.

Shy went to knock on Supervisor Franco’s open door but froze when he saw someone was already in there—the older black dude with the funky gray hair who was always writing in his leather notebook.

Franco looked up at Shy, said: “May I help you?”

“It’s okay,” Shy said. “I’ll just come back later.”

“Please. You can wait outside. We will be done here momentarily.”

Shy stepped away from the door, leaned against the wall and let his warm eyelids slowly drop. As he listened to Franco’s heavy accent, he tried to imagine his nephew stuck inside the same quarantine room as his grandma. But he couldn’t. Miguel was too tough. Never even caught a cold. He remembered throwing around a football with the kid just a few hours before he left for his first voyage. In the alley behind their building. One of Shy’s longer tosses slipped right through Miguel’s little-kid hands, and the football smacked him in the face, split his lip. But Miguel didn’t go down. Just looked up at Shy as blood trickled down his chin, got all over his T-shirt. He forced himself to smile at Shy, laugh even—though his eyes were filling with tears, too.

Shy felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes.

The man he’d just seen in Franco’s office was staring at him, holding his shoeshine kit. “How do you sleep standing up like that, young fella?”

“I was just closing my eyes,” Shy said, wiping a tiny bit of drool from the corner of his mouth.

The man grinned. “Franco’s on the phone now. Says he’ll have to check back with you later.”

Shy nodded.

Still no answers about the suit guy or their trashed room. Nothing to tell Rodney.

The man looked toward the window down the hall. “They’re worried about this storm rolling in. Supposed to hit sometime tonight.”

“It’s an actual storm now?” Shy had yet to experience even a drop of rain in the time he’d spent out with the cruise ship. But he’d learned in training how badly storms affected the way passengers spent money. Which meant fewer tips. Less money to bring back home to his mom and sis.

The man set down his shoeshine kit and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “If it’s as bad as they say, this boat’s gonna get to rocking pretty good.” He reached down into his kit, moved his notebook and some other books to the side and pulled out a gray wristband-looking thing, held it out to Shy. “Wear this when it picks up.”

“What is it?” Shy said, turning the thing over in his hand.

“Something I made for seasickness. Be sure the white button in the middle is against your inner wrist. Same idea as acupuncture.”

“Thanks,” Shy said, shoving it into his pocket. He was pretty sure the nasty-looking band would never make it onto his wrist, but he didn’t want to offend the guy.

“You’re the one who saw the man take a dive, that right?”

Shy nodded. He glanced in Franco’s office, saw him pacing back and forth, phone pinned to his ear. “Guess everyone knows about that now.”

“And there’s a man on board who’s been watching you.”

Shy stared back at him, shocked. “How’d you know that?”

“Always keep my eyes open.” The man pointed at his kit. “The job puts me in a certain position of observation.”

It baffled Shy that a shoeshine guy, someone he’d never given a second thought to, knew what was going on in his life. “You know who he is?” Shy asked. “Is he FBI or something?”

The man shrugged. “Don’t know. But let me ask you something, young fella. Would it make sense for an FBI man to focus on just you?” He pointed at his own temple. “Think it through some.”

Shy studied the man in front of him. Tired-looking eyes that never blinked. Wild hair. For some reason, Shy felt like he could trust him. He held out his hand and said: “I’m Shy, by the way.”

The man grinned and gripped Shy’s hand. “Shoeshine.”

They let go and Shy pointed at the kit on the ground. “I know that’s what you do on the ship. But what’s your name?”

“Names have no meaning out here, young fella. I’m just an old man passing through.” Shoeshine picked up his kit, gave a nod to Shy and started down the hall. He stopped in front of the small window and looked outside. “Oh yeah. Looks to be the real thing, all right.”

Shy went to the window, too. Saw a dense ceiling of nasty-looking storm clouds rolling in. Blocking out the setting sun. The ocean was choppy and raw. A crooked pulse of lightning stabbed into the horizon in the distance.